


shoot me to the ground

by daemons



Series: the last people on earth; [1]
Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Blow Jobs, Breathplay (kinda), Hate Sex, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Unsafe Sex, ignoring mental health issues like idiots, we are the elite and we don't know how to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemons/pseuds/daemons
Summary: Nick is hurt, and Kenny’s hurt, and Matt’s feeling the hurt, but at least he’s standing, and the only one of them not here hurting is Hangman, and it makes Matt so angry.
Relationships: Matt Jackson/Adam Page
Series: the last people on earth; [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034298
Comments: 21
Kudos: 36





	shoot me to the ground

**Author's Note:**

> hello, welcome to my hellscape. 
> 
> title from "draw your swords" by angus and julia stone.
> 
> this fic contains unsafe sex in that the characters partake in consensual bdsm practices without prior discussion or safewords. This includes breathplay, and insulting someone during sex. there is also no aftercare practiced.

It happens after Revolution. 

They’re in the infirmary in Chicago, Nick’s eyes glassy and pained, Kenny taping ice packs to himself by the dozen, and Matt is seething. They laugh and they chat and Brandon’s there with the camera, but there’s an awkwardness in the air, a solemness, because Kenny’s smile isn’t quite reaching his eyes and Nick is grimacing in a way that means he’s hurt and trying to hide it. And Matt- 

Matt is fucking furious. 

The problem is, he doesn’t know who he’s furious at. It’s stewing in his brain, turning inwards like sharp barbs, making him _think_. But he doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to think about the weight of Kenny’s wrist in his hand, avoiding his eyes as he and Nick executed the Golden Trigger on him. He didn’t want to think about the look of miserable betrayal there, and Matt doesn’t want to think about how he’s avoiding seeing it now. He doesn’t want to think about Nick yelling in his face, asking him what the hell he was doing, doesn’t want to think about the give of Hangman’s face under his fists, the weight of his ribs and the thud of his body on the metal ramp. 

It makes him think about the Bullet Club, about Kenny’s twisted smile when he told them to do things, terrible things, and they just…

The fury makes him think, and that makes him angrier, and it’s just a whole lot of rage and fire burning in him with nowhere to go. He can feel the cool drips of water running from the icepacks strapped to his back and shoulders, trailing down his spine and leaving goosebumps, but it does nothing to cool the blood under his skin. 

Because Nick is hurt, and Kenny’s hurt, and Matt’s feeling the hurt, but at least he’s standing, and the only one of them not here hurting is Hangman and it makes Matt so fucking angry. 

Nick must see something on his face, or sense that something’s wrong in that weird sibling way that only Nick can. It’s a sixth sense they have when it comes to each other, a link that had always freaked Kenny out, but it comes in handy most of the time- and especially now. Matt wonders if Nick can feel his anger too, his helpless rage, but Nick just catches his eyes and nods towards the door. 

“I’m gonna take a walk,” Matt says, his voice dry, and Kenny glances at him, “Just… clear my head, you know. Long match.”

Long match is understatement of the year. Kenny just nods, slowly, and that empty look is still in his eyes- the same look from when they put the Golden Trigger on him, and Matt near flees the infirmary. 

He walks the bustling backstage corridors of the Wintrust Arena, the smell of recycled air and sweat a familiar scent. No one really looks twice at him, too busy with their own jobs, and most of the roster is either in catering or the locker rooms. It’s a moment of peace amongst chaos that Matt sorely needed. 

They didn’t win.

Call him egotistical, call him whatever you want, but Matt knows in his soul, in his bones, that him and Nick were meant to have those tag team belts. Fuck, Matt knows they’re the best damn tag team in the world, definitely one of the best ever, and it’s burning him alive that they keep failing at this. They’ve conquered every other mountain, his brother and him, reached every highest peak only to… what? Fail now?

They’ve been a perfect, in sync, unstoppable team for their entire lives, only to be tossed back by a tag team that isn’t even a fucking tag team. Fucking… Hangman had said it himself- they were just two singles guys tossed together. They didn’t even care. 

Matt clenches his fist, resisting the urge to swing at the nearest wall. He sees an open room, an backstage dressing room of some sorts, and ducks in to avoid accidentally making a scene in the corridor. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, trying to get his breathing under control. 

It had been Matt’s idea, initially, to throw Kenny and Hangman together. Hangman had been looking more lost by the day, a deep insecurity and sadness in his eyes, and Kenny had been going crazy with barbed wire and fucking mousetraps just to ignore the gaping void that Ibushi had left behind. And this was Matt’s _family._ He couldn’t just let them go that easily, especially after Hangman started making moves to leave them. Not like this, not after everything they had been through with the Bullet Club. 

Keep Kenny and Hangman afloat, pull Cody out from his MJF-induced psychotic depression-whatever the hell this is, win those tag belts, rule this entire company they built from the ground up. 

It’s going all wrong. It’s not going to Matt’s plan, at all, and it’s making him go insane. This fire keeps building in his chest, this anger and frustration, with nowhere to go. He tips his head back against the door, eyes still closed, and tries to calm down.

There’s an awkward cough from the room, and Matt’s eyes fly open. 

Hangman is watching him from across the room, sitting on the edge of the plain couch while the PPV plays tinnily from the small tv mounted above the mirror and table opposite him. There’s a half-empty cup of beer in his hand, and he’s still dressed in his ring gear. The tag team title is sitting delicately on the table. There are bandages taped on him, his ribs and the side of his face. Matt registers dimly that it’s where he punched him, again and again. He thinks about the spray of Hangman’s spit on his face, the rage at the action, and the scarily satisfying feeling of having Adam pinned under him and at his mercy as he pummelled him. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

Hangman looks wary, sitting awkwardly on the couch and holding himself like he’s seconds from bolting. He just stares at Matt like an enemy, like Matt is here to wail on him. Which…. is a tempting idea.

“Needed some quiet,” Hangman says, his voice hoarse, “The locker room was too…. doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matt repeats, mockingly, and Hangman scowls. For a moment, Matt thinks about Nick when they were younger, during Impact and PWG. The way Nick would clench his jaw and flinch from every noise in their loud locker rooms, the way he would have to leave because he described everything as too overwhelming. _Anxiety_ Matt’s brain supplies, and he immediately beats it down. Matt feels the anger build up in his chest again, because Hangman is just sitting here like he hasn’t been an complete and utter asshole, and now he was making Matt _feel sorry_ for him, which is such a dick fucking move. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Hangman counters. Matt rolls his eyes.

“Don’t know if you noticed, Hangman, but I’m an EVP of this company. I can go wherever I want.” The anger is starting to reach a boiling point, and he wants to punch something. Like the wall. Or Hangman. 

Hangman groans, and runs an hand over his face, “Oh, ‘course, like you would ever let me fuckin’ forget--”

“What’s your problem?” Matt interrupts, furious, and Hangman’s eyes widen, “You were such a goddamn asshole during that match--”

Hangman scoffs, interrupting Matt, and takes a gulp of the beer in his hand. He wipes the liquid off his mouth with the back of his hand, “That’s fuckin’ rich comin’ from you. And your brother.”

“And you’ve been nothing but an asshole since you lost to Jericho,” Matt continues, and steps a bit further into the room. Hangman tenses like he’s about to spring off the couch, “So what’s your goddamn problem? Huh?”

Hangman rolls his eyes and Matt just watches as he tips the rest of the beer down. His throat moves rhythmically, and the pale liquid runs down the sides of his mouth and onto his bare chest. He crushes the plastic cup in his hand and takes a deep breath. Matt thinks about Hangman’s forehead pressed against his like he could drive himself into his brain, pull him apart from the inside out. Maybe that’s what he’s been trying to do the entire time. 

“Maybe,” Adam says, his voice rough, shaking Matt from his thoughts, “Maybe I’m tired of you and your holier than godamn thou preaching all the time like you ain’t tryna compensate for being the less talented person in your own tag team. And Matt, guess what, maybe you’re the reason you can’t get these tag belts you want so bad and your god complex ego won’t allow you to accept it so you try’n control the rest of us.”

“Sounds like you’re projecting a bit there, Hangman,” Matt says levelly. His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, anger rising like bile. Hangman rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m not the one that used the Golden Trigger on my supposed best friend so. Gotta lotta nerve callin me the asshole, man. Maybe you and your fucking brother are the problems, huh?”

Hangman’s speech is slightly slurred towards the end, and he throws the crumbled cup at Matt. It bounces off his chest, and it feels like when Hangman spat at him during the match. Matt smiles, all teeth, no humor, and tries to take a breath to calm down. Hangman scoffs again, and that’s it. 

Something in Matt _snaps_. 

He lunges across the room at Hangman, who sure as hell wasn’t expecting it, and drags him off the couch to throw him to the ground. Hangman gasps as the air is smacked out of his lungs when he hits the hard carpet, and Matt wastes no time in clambering on top of him to lay a solid punch to the side of his face. Hangman knees at Matt’s ribs, who hisses in pain, using his legs to try and buck Matt off of him. Matt pins the cowboy down with his legs and hands, and grabs his jaw, stubble scraping against his fingertips, making sure to dig his fingers into the bruise he’d left there earlier. He lifts Adam’s face slightly, and slams it back into the carpet. 

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Adam groans, spitting blood onto the ground from his mouth, and Matt grabs him at the roots of his hair to drag his head back around. Maybe it’s the burning fire in Matt, maybe it’s the alcohol he’s sure Adam’s already consumed, but Matt feels far stronger than the man beneath him in that moment, and when he pulls at Adam’s hair the man goes limp under him with a gasp. 

That stops Matt in his tracks, suddenly, and Adam takes advantage to drive one of his hands into Matt’s chest. Matt yelps, and lets go to grab his arm and pin it to the floor. He uses his knee to pin Adam’s other wrist, and grabs his hair again to yank him back into place. Adam stops struggling, staring up at him, chest heaving, and Matt… 

Oh. 

Adam’s face is flushed red from drink and exertion, and there’s something hungry in his expression. That makes Matt pause, eyes flicking over him because Matt is… definitely getting hard in his stupid ring pants. The fire burns in his chest, and on a whim, Matt spits in Adam’s face. Just like he did in the ring.

Adam flinches when it hits him, but his mouth falls open on a gasp, and his eyes are dilated when he opens them again. _Oh._ Matt tightens his grip on his wrist and tugs at his hair. 

“Has this been your problem?” Matt hisses, and Adam struggles in vain under him, “You need someone to smack you around? Put you in your place?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Adam hisses, and Matt lets go of his hair to grab at his jaw again. Adam groans, and Matt pitches forward to swallow the noise as he brings their mouths together. It’s not a kiss, not really, more a clash of tongues and teeth that sends goosebumps up Matt’s spine, but it’s making a bloom of heat pool in his stomach, and he licks into Adam’s mouth. He tastes like copper blood and bitter liquid, which Matt knows is the beer, but he really can’t bring himself to give a shit. He bites Adam’s lip, sudden and sharp, a fresh bloom of metal on his tongue, and chases the taste. The other man moans quietly, and the hot slide of their mouths is too much and not enough. 

Matt sits back suddenly, tightening his grip on Adam’s wrist. His other arm is still trapped under Matt’s knee, and it must definitely be hurting by now, but Matt doesn’t really care. His cock is pressing on the inside of his pants, straining, and he brings his free hand back to feel at Adam’s trunks. There’s a hard bulge, a spot of damp on the outside, and he pushes his hand underneath the waistband to grope at Adam’s cock roughly. Adam gasps, body twisting under him, but Matt holds firm and starts stroking him with no gentleness whatsoever. The dryness of his hand must hurt somewhat, but judging by the noises Adam is making, he doesn’t really seem to care. Matt squeezes, and Adam’s cock flexes in his fist. Matt had forgotten how big Adam is, even with all the hung jokes they’d made in Being the Elite over the years.

“Jesus’fuckin’christ, _Matt_ ,” Adam spits, his mouth wet and kiss-swollen, tossing his head back into the carpet and exposing the hollow of his neck. Matt thinks about wrapping his hands around it, squeezing, until Adam gasps for breath and he’s completely at Matt’s mercy. Instead, he has a better idea, and wonders if Adam will actually go for it. He’s seemed pretty into it so far, if the whimpers and desperate jerks of his hips are anything to go by. 

He removes his hand, and Adam groans in frustration. Matt just stares down at him until those blue eyes meet his. 

“You want me to keep going?” he asks, his voice mocking, and Adam nods, jaw clenched. Matt grins, all teeth, “Then you have to suck me.” 

He can see Adam’s pupils dilate at his words, can feel his hips jerk up, but his jaw sets stubbornly.

“Fuck you.” 

Matt rolls his eyes, and presses his fingers on either side of Adam’s neck. He can feel the fast thrumming of his pulse, the heat coming from his skin, and pushes down ever so slightly. He can feel Adam swallow, and it exhilarates him. 

“I don’t think so,” he says, and leans closer so that their noses are touching, breathing into each other’s mouths, just like in the ring, and Adam takes a ragged sounding breath. Matt’s grip on him had loosened somewhat, his knee slipping from Hangman’s arm, and Adam’s eyes narrow just before he lurches up and knocks Matt loose. In one fluid motion, Adam twists them around with his arms and hips, until he’s pinning Matt’s shoulders to the floor, _one, two--_ , and Matt lifts one arm up to grab at Adam’s curls again. 

“You’re gonna do what I tell you,” Matt says, voice shaking slightly from the flipped position, “Because I think you know you need it. Right, Hangman?” 

He can feel Adam shudder against him, and Matt wonders if he’s actually going to do it moments before he starts sliding down Matt’s body, long and slow. Matt keeps his fist in blonde curls as Adam starts pulling down his tights. It’s a point of control, especially as his neglected cock springs out of his underwear and Matt feels just a little bit less in control. He grips, hard, when Adam finally mouths at him, sucking the head of Matt’s dick into his mouth, hands bracing on his hips, and sliding down as far as he can go. 

Matt bites off a yell, a wave of pleasure slamming into him at the sudden wet heat, and he twists his hand sharply. Adam groans, the vibrations travelling up Matt’s spine, and he looks down on a whim. Adam’s hands are flexing slightly, red lips stretched around Matt’s dick, and his blue eyes half lidded as he stares up at him. It might be one of the hottest fucking things Matt has ever seen in his life. His hips jerk up, and Adam gags, which really shouldn’t make Matt’s cock get harder, but it does. Sue him. Adam’s fingers press into his hips as he sucks harder. Matt snaps his hand shut, twists his hair, and pulls him down to bury his cock in Adam’s throat. 

Adam makes a choking sound, body writhing and fingers leaving bruises in Matt’s hips, throat spasming wildly around Matt’s cock, and it feels fucking amazing.

“Yeah, babe,” Matt says in a rush, voice wavering at the overwhelming heat running through him. It’s completely eaten up the anger that was burning him, “Yeah, look at you, choking on my dick. Is this what you wanted, huh?” 

Matt runs his other hand across Adam’s face, across the jut of his jaw, feeling the hollows of his cheeks, running his finger across red lips. Adam moans again, and Matt thunks his head back into the floor. The PPV is still playing behind them. Matt pulls Adam’s head up, and the man gasps for air.

“ _Matt_ ,” he gasps, voice wrecked and raw, and Matt barely gives him a second before he’s plunging him back down.

“God, your _mouth_. Should’ve made you do this months ago. Maybe you’d’ve stopped acting like a little bitch.”

Adam makes an indignant sound, and Matt rolls his hips up to chase the back of his throat again. It shuts Adam up fairly quickly, and the incessant heat in Matt’s gut builds as Adam sucks harder, spit running down his mouth. He tugs on those curls again, feeling the responding moan, and bucks up. 

“Should’ve known it’d be this easy to shut you up,” Matt rambles, the words coming out without thought, as his chest heaves and his hips jerk, “Is that why you were being such an asshole? Just needed someone to stick a cock down your throat? Needed me to knock you down to your knees? You’re so hot, babe, you, you-- _jesus fuck_ \--” 

The coil in his stomach twists urgently, and he looks down to see Adam’s nose almost pressed to Matt’s abdomen now, his eyes rolling around in his head, mouth going slack. It’s an exquisite sight, and Matt pulls Adam off his dick hurriedly as his balls draw up warningly. Adam gasps for air, suddenly, hands clenching, and Matt jerks his dick just as he comes on the other man’s face. 

White ropes spatter across Hangman’s flushed face, running down the sides of his swollen mouth and cheeks, the image making Matt groan way too loudly and clench his hand through Adam’s curls. The heat prickles under his skin, leeching out, and something eases in his chest. He can hear their heavy breathing bouncing around the room, Adam’s far quicker than his own. 

Matt sits up, pulling on his tights, jostling Adam back on his knees, and pushes him back roughly. Adam goes, back colliding with the edge of the sofa, knees parted to accommodate the impressive looking and surely painful tent in his trunks. Matt climbs onto his long legs, forcing his knees down, and grabs his jaw in one hand as he shoves his other one into Hangman’s pants. The grip he has on his face means that he can see all of it, every last bit of spunk splattered and smeared onto Hangman’s face. He looks utterly debauched, and the desperate noise he makes when Matt finally starts stroking him makes Matt’s softened dick twitch in his pants. 

“Look at you,” Matt breathes, digging his thumb into the side of Hangman’s mouth so it’s forced to open, “ _Fuck_ , you look filthy. Imagine if Kenny could see you like this.”

Matt says that without thinking, his mouth loose from orgasm and adrenaline, but Adam’s eyes widen suddenly before slamming shut as his dick twitches in Matt’s hand. Matt laughs, cruelly, and speeds up his strokes.

“Is that what you want, Page? You want Kenny to see you covered in my cum? Want him to see you gagging on my cock? You think he’d be disgusted with you?”

“ _Matt--_ ” Adam whines, voice wrecked and raw, trying to desperately to move, but Matt keeps him pinned. That anger is building up again in Matt’s chest, and he rips his hand away to tug Adam’s head to the side, leaning forward to bite at his earlobe. Hangman groans again, trembling underneath Matt, his wet eyes fluttering closed.

“I think he’d be disappointed,” Matt hisses, “I think he’d _hate_ you for it.”

Adam’s hips jerk, entire body shaking, and a guttural groan is ripped from his throat as he comes all over Matt’s hand. Matt leans back to watch his face, still covered in Matt’s cum, and notices with some muted emotion- he can’t tell what- that tears have started to run down Hangman’s cheeks. Huh. 

He finally slumps back with a broken gasp, a hiccuping sound, and Matt wipes his hand off on his bare belly. He stands up, stretches out his back till he hears a pop, and looks curiously at the PPV still running on the TV. Jericho and Moxley are fighting, and Matt wonders distantly if Cody won. 

There’s a muted sound from behind him, like a sob, and it makes Matt turn around to stare down at Hangman. He’s still sitting against the sofa, still shaking slightly, and is swiping at his face until it’s clear. His eyes are red rimmed, tears dripping, and Matt feels that tug of emotion again. Pity? Sadness? Worry? He can’t tell. He should ask if Hangman’s okay, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Matt walks over to the tag title sitting on the table, undisturbed during their… fight, and runs a careful finger over the engravings. Hangman just watches him. The crowd cheers on the PPV. He should say something. 

There’s nothing to say. There’s too much to say.

“These should be ours,” Matt says, more to himself. 

Hangman laughs, but it’s without humor, “Yeah. But they’re not.”

Matt snorts, “It’s bullshit. You’re not even a real tag team.”

There’s a sad sigh, and Matt looks over at him. Adam is staring at nothing, his eyes unreadable, and his arms wrapped around his knees, “Yeah. I guess we’re not.”

Matt wonders if he should apologize for saying what he did about Kenny, for how he acted during the match, for anything. But, the thing is, he’s not sorry. He can recall the heavy, sick, thud of Hangman as Matt suplexed him onto the metal ramp and the way he felt. He felt good. He _enjoyed_ it. Enjoyed hurting Hangman like he enjoyed getting his dick sucked by the other man. God, how fucked up. 

“We won,” Adam says, and Matt focuses in on him. His voice is hoarse, “We beat you. We beat the Young Bucks. Overcame all the odds, ya know?”

“Yeah, I was there,” Matt says, roughly, anger flaring up, “What’s your damn point?”

Adam inhales shakily, “We won. So why don’t I feel happy ‘bout it?” 

Matt tenses, because that question is too much. It makes panic flare up his spine, a cold rush of it on his neck, and he looks away from Adam curled against the couch, and whatever endorphins he had are leeching out of him. 

“Whatever,” Matt mutters, because he cannot and will not deal with this goddamned emotionally manipulative conversation any longer. He heads for the door, and Hangman laughs- that emotionless, dark sound, again. It makes Matt pause.

“What?” he spits.

“Why couldn’t’ve you just let me leave?” 

And Matt stares at the door ahead of him, mind racing. _Because you’re mine._ and that thought makes the anger punch through his chest again. 

But he doesn’t say that, pushes it down in his brain, and opts for flipping Hangman off instead as he leaves the room. Fuck that. Fuck everything. What a fucking mess. 

He gets back to the infirmary, and Kenny is napping in the corner. Nick’s face is pale, his eyes tight with pain, and Matt taps him gently on the shoulder as he levers himself onto the medical bed next to him. Nick looks him up and down, frowning.

“You alright?” he asks, and Matt shrugs.

“Yep,” he says, “Just. Had a lot of thinking to do.”

“Where did you go?”

Matt doesn’t answer, just let’s his head fall back against the wall. He needs a shower, he needs to sleep for twelve hours straight, he needs to not think about titles and Cody’s back bleeding from a belt and Kenny’s empty betrayed eyes and Nick’s cry of pain and tears leaking from Hangman’s face. He needs to not think about the state of his family. For a second, he understands why Hangman drinks. 

“Matt?” Nick queries, his voice worried. 

On the TV, Mox is holding the world title above his head. In the corner, the tag title belt is tucked carefully in Kenny’s bag. Matt sighs, and pats his brother’s arm.

“It’s fine, Nick,” he says, but his voice is not comforting in the least, “We’ll be fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> whew lads, that got sad at the end and i do not know why. 
> 
> this is definitely gonna be a series, about the sad elite boys, because why not. this is also my eternal love letter to matt jackson and hangman page, who are definitely the most interesting characters in the elite at the moment. 
> 
> dedicated to sue nation (even though our name keeps changing) on twitter, who don't know this fic exists but definitely support me in all my matt jackson and hangman page thirst tweets. love you all, and if you're reading this note, hope you enjoyed my sad filth.


End file.
